“‘On ‘Lizabeth?’ says Jim. ‘What you mean? God knows,’ says he, ‘I’d not hurt ’Lizabeth.’
“‘Then ponder,’ says Arch. ‘’Riginal sin is made you a thief an’ a jailbird. Ponder, Jim—ponder!’
“Now,” cries Tumm, in an outburst of feeling, “what you think ’Lizabeth All done?”
I was confused by the question.
“Why,” Tumm answered, “it didn’t make no difference t’ she!”
I was not surprised.
“Not s’prised!” cries Tumm. “No,” he snapped, indignantly, “nor neither was Slow Jim Tool.”
Of course not!
“Nobody knows nothin’ about a woman,” said Tumm; “least of all, the woman. An’, anyhow,” he resumed, “’Lizabeth All didn’t care. Why, God save you, sir!” he burst out, “she loved the shoulders an’ soul o’ Slow Jim Tool too much t’ care. ’Tis a woman’s way; an’ a woman’s true love so passes the knowledge o’ men that faith in God is a lesson in A B C beside it. Well,” he continued, “sailin’ the Give an’ Take that fall, I was cotched in the early freeze-up, an’ us put the winter in at Jump Harbor, with a hold full o’ fish an’ every married man o’ the crew in a righteous rage. An’ as for ’Lizabeth, why, when us cleared the school-room, when ol’ Bill Bump fiddled up with the accordion ‘’Money Musk’ an’ ‘Pop Goes the Weasel,’ when he sung out, ‘Balance!’ an’ ‘H’ist her, lad!’ when the jackets was throwed aside an’ the boots was cast off, why, ’Lizabeth All jus’ fair clinged t’ that there big, gray-eyed, pink-an’-white Slow Jim Tool! ’Twas a pretty sight t’ watch her, sir, plump an’ winsome an’ yellow-haired, float like a sea-gull over the school-room floor—t’ see her blushes an’ smiles an’ eyes o’ love. It done me good. I ’lowed I wished I was young again—an’ big an’ slow an’ kind an’ curly-headed. But lookin’ about, sir, it seemed t’ me, as best I could understand, that a regiment o’ little devils was stickin’ red-hot fish-forks into the vitals o’ Archibald Shott; an’ then I ’lowed, somehow, that maybe I was jus’ as well off as I was. I got a look in his eyes, sir, afore the night was done; an’ it jus’ seemed t’ me that the Lord had give me a peep into hell.
“’Twas more’n Archibald Shott could carry. ‘Tumm,’ says he, nex’ day, ‘I ’low I’ll move.’